A letter to a friend
by Ayno23
Summary: Set after the fall. John writes about his feelings in a letter to Sherlock. After leaving the letter at Sherlock's grave, it disappears and someone might reappear. Rated T because I don't know where the story will lead me. (But definitely Mary won't appear, not sorry).
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock.

Look. Look what you've done to me. I'm sitting here writing a letter. To you. To a ... gone .. person.. Screw it. It's not if I'm unable to say it.. and yeah in this case saying means writing, thank you Mister-know-it-all. I know pretty damn well you're dead. I saw you jumping, remember? Saw you.. lying there on the pavement and there was all this blood and no pulse and ... since I'm a doctor I know what that means.. But you where there so you know as well..

I knew it was a stupid idea but my so called therapist thinks I need to do this.. writing a letter about me, my feelings.. you.  
Well, she too thought it would help to write a blog about my life when I came back from Afghanistan. And it helped. Not because of the writing, hell no. Because of you. Because you were there. You saved me..  
I guess I never told you but you really did. After I came back.. I had no one. I avoided company and spend my days alone in this small flat you never get to know. I didn't knew what to do with my life. I've been a soldier for so long and before that I studied at Bart's right after finishing school. So there was nothing I could think of, nothing I've done before. God, remembering it now it all seems like a lifetime ago.  
And well, since you are gone, it started all over again. I haven't really been talking to anybody in a couple of weeks I guess.. And I have a new flat, you know? I live outside the center now in a quiet street.. I just couldn't stand returning back to Baker Street but don't worry, I got Molly to check up on Mrs. Hudson every once in a while.. guess she can't deny me anything. She always gives me this look as of she was afraid I might do something to myself or something like that.. But I wouldn't. It hurts to think about you (yet I writing all this stuff) and it's close to impossible to talk about you with somebody. But I wouldn't go this far. Not since it was you who gave all this to me. I mentioned it before, you saved me. I'm sure you didn't knew it but the day I came along with you to the crime scene of the lady in pink and you offered to share a flat with me, everything changed. I was so alone until then and then you came and turned my life upside down. Even now, after all this time, I can't stop smiling when I think about it.  
Barely knowing me you said I would miss the war and the adrenaline and (as always) you where right. It may sound odd because of what we where doing (the solving of crime and murder) but it was the best time of my life and before I could gave all this a second thought it became my, our everyday life. And there is something I just can't let go.. so… here's the truth that you just need to know: You're my everyday life. It was you I was thinking of, it was you I cared about most and it was you I loved. It's as simple as that. I just did and still do. And I often regret that I wasn't able to tell you. I love you. And it really feels nice to finally admit it to you. Even if it's just in this way.

I can't put my finger on the moment I realised it.. Maybe it was the day I shot the cabbie who almost killed you.. This was certainly the day I understood that you were an idiot, just like any of us and yet you were so different from anybody else. But I mean, who needs to measure himself with crazy murderers just to get distracted from boredom - definitely only an idiot.

Maybe it was the day in dartmoor. Remember? It was the first time I saw you scared, really scared and frightened. And the day after our fight you told me that you didn't have friends. You just got one. I still remember these words clear as a day. I linke to think that this showed just a little bit, that I wasn't just your Blogger or a person you accidently happen to solve crimes with, no. You cared about me. Maybe just as much as I cared for you but I don't wanna stress my luck since it's all over now and you don't need to care about anybody anymore and I don't have anyone left to care about. All I got from that was heartbreak and pain and agony.

I secretly always thought it was sad what you said, that feelings are a defect, found on the losing side. But now, in this state I can't describe any other than empty, I'm close to admitting you were right.

Wait a sec, someone's at the door...

Ha, guess what. It was Mrs Hudson. She said she happened to drop by and thought to ask me if I'd accompany her to your grave. Guess it's okay to do so.

So, I'm finished for now. Going to give this to you later.

I miss you Sherlock, I really do. And after all this time I still can't let go of you. But it can't be helped.

I love you.

John

And with these last words John folded his letter neatly, shoved it into an envelope and simply wrote 'To Sherlock' on it in his doctor-like messy writing. He grabbed his jacket from the chair next to him, shrugged into it and pouched the envelope into his pocket. He left the flat without a last look back to meet Mrs Hudson waiting for him in the street and to meet his fate after two years. Finally.

But of this, he wasn't aware of.

**A/N: Hi there. So, that's it. The first chapter of my first fic in english (yeah, guess what, it's not my native tongue). Hope you enjoyed it, let me know. ;) Also if there are any heavy mistakes (maybe someone likes to beta the next chapter?)**

**Hope to read you again,**

**Ayno. **


	2. Chapter 2

'I'll go fetch a cab, John. Leaving a bit of privacy to the two of you', Mrs Hudson said with a small smile and a gesture to John and the grave.

'Ah, yeah... Thank you. I won't need long'.

Mrs Hudson left with little steps. John just stared at the grave but he heard her little steps fade away and disappear. Not until then he started to speak: 'Hey Sherlock. Well, wow. Mrs Hudson sure had a lot to tell you, right?' He managed a little chuckle but it quickly was silenced because no one joined in.

'Ehm.. I don't really know what to say to you.. and Mrs Hudson is waiting... so.. I'll leave this here for you.'

He pulled the envelope out of his pocket, bent down over the flowers Mrs Hudson brought along and tucked the letter behind the bunch of flowers for no one to see. John took a step back to look for the envelope but it couldn't be seen, even if one was looking for it.

'Well', John sighted, 'I'll leave now but I guess I'll be back in a couple of days. You know, nothing to do and such. So, goodbye Sherlock. I miss you and... I love you'. The last words were barely a whisper. One last look at the black tombstone a soft pat on the marbled surface, then John turned around to join Mrs Hudson at the end of the graveyard but not without blinking the tears away.

Someone stood and watched. Someone who had done it nearly two years ago. As John and Mrs Hudson had left, the guise left his hidden spot under a tree and behind some bushes to sneak up to Sherlocks grave. Standing there he watched the flowers for a moment with an unsure expression on his face. But then he bent down and quickly grabbed an envelope from behind the bunch of flowers. A small smile on his lips, a silent chuckle and off he went, shoving the envelope in his pocket. He would read it in a safer place, alone.

And with a breeze of the cold east wind the guise disappeared.

**A /N: Hi there, thanks for showing up or sticking around. I know, I know, it's horribly short. But this fic soon developed its own dynamics and I don't know where it'll lead. Guess I'm continueing now. Maybe tomorrow you'll get a new chapter. **

**Feel free to share your thoughts with me. **

**Adios!**

**Ayno**


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock was back in one of his old hideouts. Barely someone knew about it and thanks to Mycroft it was quite alright there. But it wasn't Baker Street. It wasn't home. Sitting in the only worn out armchair close to an antiquated kitchen range Sherlock looked around shortly but intense. After two years of hideouts, nightly escapes and stalkings he hardly can't remember a life in peace and sound sleep. Not that he had ever bothered with something like a peaceful life or a regular sleep pattern but the last two years had been different. Hard and more than once closer to death than he'd ever been. A short sigh escaped Sherlocks mouth and surprised by his own sounds, he shook his head furisously. Sentiment. Something Sherlock definitley isn't used to. But sentiment made him take a leap in the end. It made him do so much more than he'd ever thought possible.

Sitting in this armchair in this old flat, Sherlock tucked up his legs to his stomach and takes the still sealed envelope from the table next to him. He rips it open carefully and unfolds the letter. He couldn't help but smile on the looks of Johns messy but oh so familiar handwiting. While reading in silence a variety of emotions cross Sherlocks facial features. He smiled on the reminders John had written about but also looked confused and astonished at some of Johns confessions. After he finished the letter, Sherlocks arms dropped useless to his sides and he notes that he'd been sitting in a crouch, all his body tense and stiff now. He moves a bit to soften his muscles he wasn't aware of beeing so strained. Slumping into the armchait again he stares with wide eyes, trying to come to terms with the just now read confession of John. He stared for more than a minute, more than ten minutes, his mind working flat out but then again working out nothing at all. This was truly confusing for him, Sherlock Holmes. He who solved every puzzle in the blink of an eye, he who could save a nation without much effort. But this.. the feelings of a single man were to much for him.

Why did John feel like this? What does it mean? Does it change anything between us? Shall I go back to him? Shouldn't I? But I want to. What do I want? Be with John. In which way? The old way? I there another way? What do I feel? Why do I feel? What should I do? What can I do? When? Where?

All this thoughts raced trough Sherlocks mind, clashing each other and repeating itself over and over and over again. It took him a fair moments to realise he had started to hum in discomfort. He looked around again but the flat hadn't changed. Yet everything had changed. He needed answers. Mind palace? But he was sure that everything buied in there wouldn't be enough or provide any answers. He had never experienced this before. Like a hunted animal he looked around again and again, in a way more frightened than he had ever been, even in Dartmoor.

"Ok, calm down! Now!" Sherlock froze at the voice. The voice of Mycroft. He knew perfectly well, that it was only in him, in his mind palace but it had helped more than once in difficult moments to analyse something with the eyes of Mycroft. Sherlock shifted his weight in the chair, putting his feet on the floor and straightening his back and putting his hands together under his chin like he had done a million times before he took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

The halls of his mind palace appeared before him. In one of the corners stood a nice sitting arangement. And that's where he found Mycroft. Sitting there, the calm himself, sipping a cup of tea. Sherlock approached cautiously and sat down in a chair opposite to Mycrofts.

"Well brother dear, nice to be invited again. It has been some time, hasn't it?, Mycroft asked with an impassive almost cold voice.  
"Ages", Sherlock answered with a cold smile which didn't reach his eyes.

"So. You seemed to be a bit out of your mind. Slighly overwhelmed by the letter you stole, I suppose.2

"I didn't steal it!", Sherlock bursted out. "It had my name written on it. John wrote it to me!"

"True. But only because you thought you were dead. You were never supposed to read it, weren't you?"

"But.. what does it matter? I read it. The damage is done! What should I do now?", Sherlock shrank at the question. He hated to ask a question, he didn't like not knowing. And the fact it was Mycroft the question was directed to, real or not, wasn't better.

"Well. The crux of the matter. What do you want to do?"

"I wanna return," Sherlock answered rueful, feeling like a kid again. Beeing asked such questions, especially by his brother always made him feel small and stupid, just like in the days when they were kids.

"But how? John thinks you're dead. Everyone thinks…"

"I don't care what _everyone_ thinks. You know that," Sherlock remarked quickly with furious eyes observing his brother. He noticed that Mycroft seemed to enjoy himself and this whole situation a little to much.

"_I _know you like to think to yourself that you don't care. But you do. Secretly you know it too, but as always you need me to tell you the obvious," Mycroft stated with a small smirk tucked to his lips.

Sherlock felt close to punching Mycroft but it was no use. He knew it. He had known all along. He tricked himself in repeating that he didn't care. He repeated it over and over again until he eventually believed himself. But as usually, Mycroft saw straight through him. So there was no need to deny it, especially with the knowledge that all this only happened in his head. He sighed.

"Whatever. But what do I do? How can I go back to John? I can't just drop by and tell him, can I? Or _can_ I? Actually.. " Sherlock drifted in his thughts, imagining all possible reactions John might be capable of: Crying, Screaming, Denying, Ignoring, a happy outburst (highly unlikley but Sherlocks favorite), Punching (more likely but Sherlock felt like he'd deserve it) and so on. Another sigh escaped the tall mans lips. He slowly shook his head. Too many possibilities. I can't predict what John will do. He surprised me before.. Sherlock remered a night in a darkened pool where John offered to give his life for Sherlock's in the precess of the night. Sometimes John was impossible to predict. To read him and do deductions on him, piece of cake. But predicting what he might do or say, close to impossible. Maybe that was the point with John and Sherlock's liking to be around him. John wasn't boring. John was.. fascinating. And unafraid of Sherlock's abilities. He even admired him for that. And there were so much more things Sherlock liked about John. He couldn't help but smile and this heart convulsed for a second at these thoughts. Stop thinking about it now, he told himself.

"No, I can't just drop by. It would shock him or hurt me. I don't want neither of it to happen.. but then again, what shall I do?" Sherlock looked around his mind palace and stood up. Thinking was easier when in motion. He shoved his hands in his pockets… and there it was! The answer what he should do! With an surprised look on his face he pulled his hand out of his right pocket and with it a wrinkled letter. John's letter. Sherlock stared a moment, thinking of the possibilities.

"I'm writing a letter to him!" He opened his eyes and was back in the old ratty flat, sitting in the old worn out armchair.

**A / N: Back already. Hope you liked it. Feel free to review, I'd really love it. I'm looking forward to writing Sherlocks letter so I hope it won't take too long. **

**Love,**

**Ayno**


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